A ballad
by Erugenel
Summary: A minstrel of Theoden's court survives the battle and tells a tale of the fallen in a ballad. This is his tale.
1. Chapter 1

**A Ballad**

In the silence of the aftermath of battle I awoke, with my Rohirrhic armor still strapped onto me, a blood-encrusted sword in my hand and my horse nowhere to be seen. As I opened my eyes, I was greeted with a sight terrible to behold.

Desolation and destruction were everywhere. The once green fields of the Pelennor were now blood stained and horribly burned, and the grass was trampled. There were the carcasses of both men and orcs alike, of my people, the horse-lords and their beloved horses, and of the men of Gondor, still gleaming in their shining armor. My heart cried out to all of them. They had fought bravely for the liberation of Middle Earth, and now, they had given their lives for it. Husbands, brothers, sons, all lost because of war.

When we had charged, into battle, the music from our horns had instilled fear into the hearts of our enemies. When Théoden had shouted "Death!" I had thought that we would be victorious. Yes, we were victorious, but for only this battle. The war was not over. And there is no triumph without a loss, a very great loss indeed.

I remember how victorious I had felt when I had struck down orc after orc, of how a fey battle mood had seized me when I had ridden like a thunderbolt through the throng of enemies and how, for a fleeting moment I had felt afraid. I had laughed at fear before, yet now, I strangely could not.

The sound of hushed and sorrowful voices to my left alerted me to the fact that I was not the only living being left on the Pelennor fields. I saw three figures, each one kingly in his own right.

First, the proud, striding gait signature to the royalty of Rohan, for being a minstrel in the King's courts I have oft seen them. As he raised his strong voice he turned out to be Eomer, Third Marshall of the Mark and Nephew to the king Théoden.

Then, there was one clad in black, with a cloak of grey a sheen even my own words cannot describe. This was the Lord Aragorn.

The third, clad in blue and silver, the livery of Dol Amroth, I did not recognize. I guessed him to be a General or one of the nobles. Behind them followed a group of servants.

As they advanced, I immediately struggled to follow them, for fear of being left behind on this barren wasteland. They paused at a spot, and I could hear Eomer saying "Here lies the King's banner-bearer Guthláf, who died in defense of the King. Alas that I should live to see the lifeless faces of my kinsmen!"

Soon they moved on. At some point they would stop, when they had chanced upon the face of some renowned Lord who gave up his life to defend the city. They would remember his brave deeds, or recall his glorious final moments, if any of them were there to see it. We passed many, some of whom I recognized, when the shadow of the East had not grown so large and there was still laughter and joy in Meduseld. Harding, Dunhere, Deorwine, Grimbold, Herefara, Horn, Fastred from Rohan, and the Lords of Gondor, Hirluin, Forlong and Derufin and Duilin, the archers from Morthond.

Many more there were, yet by now my mind was slipping onto darkness and my body could bear the pain no longer. I cried out to the three, "Pray, wait a little, my lords. I beseech you to stop, for I am in pain and cannot go on."

And at that, I collapsed to the ground, my mind swiftly succumbing to weariness.

* * *

My english teacher wanted us to rewrite a ballad in story form. so i used one from the book. thought i might grab the plot bunny as it passed or it would be gone forever...  



	2. Chapter 2

**A ballad**

When I awoke once again, I saw myself, this time, in a small bed, in a room full of other sick and wounded from battle. Catching a healer by the elbow, I learnt that I was in the Houses of Healing. A pleasant place it would have been in happier times, no doubt, yet now…

The healers made their rounds daily. Over brief conversations with them I realized that the Captains of the west were gearing up for a final assault on the Black Gates. It was said that it was done to give the Ringbearer more time, a final chance against the roving eye, a diversion. Madness, many had thought it to be. Somehow I felt that there was method in this madness.

Now was a time of great unrest and uncertainty. Many of us fully expected the army of the west to have lost, and have the hosts of Mordor issue from the Black Gate. When I was well enough to walk, I passed many wards, some of the patients screaming and thrashing in their fevers.

Day after day, I would despair and think that in the whole of Middle Earth no one could be suffering more than us. And day after day I would have to remind myself that I was many, many times more fortunate than others. Especially those around me.

I adopted the 'garden therapy', something suggested to me by a kindly healer. I would take to wandering the gardens, pen and paper in hand, trying to come up with a tribute to those who had fallen in the battle. Each time I racked my brain for a suitable line to commemorate the great '' who had fallen in battle, the words seemed so hard to reach. When I had finally composed a line or two, I would throw the paper away, convinced that it was not worthy enough to be put into song.

In all my life I have never felt so helpless before.

During my stay there, I learnt also that the king Théoden was also killed news that grieved me and all of Rohan. Yet I still could not reach out from that invisible barrier in my mind and grasp the words fitting for those who had so bravely given their lives to defend our lands.

_Think man! What was the first thing that registered in your mind before you entered battle? _

I have no idea…

_It was the horns…_

_We heard of the horns in the hills ringing,_

_The swords shining in the south kingdom._

_Steeds went riding to the stoningland_

_As wind in the morning. War was kindled._

_There Théoden fell, thengling mighty,_

_To his golden halls and green pastures_

_In the northern fields never returning,_

_High lord of the host. Harding and Guthlaf_

_Dunhere and Deorwine, doughty Grimbold,_

_Herefara and Herubrand, Horn and Fastred,_

_Fought and fell there in a far country._

_In the mounds of Mundburg under mould they lie_

_With their league-fellows, lords of Gondor._

_Neither Hirluin the fair to the hills by the sea,_

_Nor Forlong the old to the flowering vales_

_Ever, to Arnach, to his own country_

_Returned in triumph; nor the tall bowmen,_

_Derufin and Duilin, to their dark waters,_

_Meres of Morthond under mountain- shadows._

_Death in the morning and at day's ending_

_Lords took and lowly. Long now they sleep_

_Under grass in Gondor by the Great River._

_Grey now as tears, gleaming silver,_

_Red then it rolled, roaring water:_

_Foam dyed with blood flamed at sunset,_

_And beacons mountains burned at evening:_

_Red fell the dew in Rammas Echor._

**_finis_**


End file.
